Eyes
by Holl-e-wood
Summary: one shot, angsty. Written after HBP, this was my take on Snape's POV of the Lightning Struck Tower and its immediate aftermath.


Eyes

_Pretend for a moment Severus Snape is still working for Dumbledore, even after his apparent murder of that man; pretend for a moment that atop the Lightning Struck Tower Severus and Dumbledore engaged in legilimency, just before the end. After this premise, almost anything would seem possible—and it is possible to wonder: was there, in fact, a second legilimency done that night? What if Dumbledore was not the last person to give Severus Snape information through legilimency? And what if this second person was totally unaware of the exchange, but to Severus it meant a great deal? This is the idea upon which the following scene is based._

He was cold—so very, very cold…

The voices were frightened; but then, they were always frightened. They thronged together into a surge of panic, of maniacal laughter and triumphant, shouted curses and desperate counterattacks. But it was outside him, far away, unimportant. It made no difference to him. Not now. Not now, when everything was falling apart. He swept through the chaos untouched, unnoticed, a lone figure whipping through troubles that could not come near him, troubles as fleeting and insubstantial as the shadows that danced on the high stone walls about him. None of that mattered now—only one thing made any difference at all now. He must salvage the situation as best he could—but he could not do it alone—if only he was in time…

Pace quickened—breaking through the crowd—the door, with its feeble spell which threw those around him back, but let him through so easily—up the stairs—the door flies open—

The night air was warm where he stood, but it, too, could not touch him, could not warm him—nor could it shake him from his purpose. He lashed out, shoving aside what stood in his way, desperately trying to take charge but finding it all falling away, taking in the strange scene even as bitter hopelessness filled him, his eyes searching, searching

Caught.

His icy stare bored into old blue eyes. Minds locked—volumes spoken, without words—

images, a pain stabbing to the heart, blood on a wall and a green light and horrible, horrible memories and a boy—two boys, a boy with green eyes, so angry, so sad, a boy with dark eyes, so sad, so angry, and a face, a face twisted and snakelike, a silent apology and the feeling of unshed tears, a deep shame but a hard knowledge and the last, concrete thread of coherent truth and thought—a desperate command that seared his mind and echoed in his heart, breaking it. _Severus! Now! You _must_—_

Eyes shut. No more.

A voice pleaded, echoing the mind's cry. Damnation and salvation, in one act.

A hand, so steady, holding a wand.

He should die for this.

AVADA KEDAVRA

And he did.

They both did.

Then a shudder, internal—and heat, blazing, damning fire coursing through his veins, emanating from the dark center of his world, burned deep, immovably, into the flesh of his left arm. His muscle tightened, an uncontrollable spasm, and he fought for breath. The coldness and the fury of fire battled as he stood there for a small eternity—but the coldness conquered.

The coldness always conquered.

And he turned, outwardly so controlled, to move away, filled with death and coldness inside; everything was in slow motion; but then the light faded and the moment broke, and his vision cleared, and through his jumbled thoughts only one repeated, lucid refrain kept him going—and he ran—

so fast…

But not fast enough to block the pain in that soundless scream, the scream he did not have to hear to know was there, the scream he felt echo so hollowly as it resonated in his own mind, and the coldness stifled his breath as he opened his mouth to scream, too—

—but out came meaningless words, for the façade that must not be pulled away held, and he knew he must not let down his guard—and his words were true and cruel and false and veiled with warnings, but one word, not his, was so much louder—

COWARD

And the fire flared, the coldness bit hard into his soul, and fragile, shallow lies snapped under of truth that dug into them, like the white fingers that pushed his sharp nails so hard into his vulnerable palms, like the rawness of a throat that had shouted for far too long, saying nothing and everything all at once until the wrong word, the wrong curse, had escaped and ended it all, and

And eyes. Eyes, green eyes, this time, boring into his, and for a second time, so soon—contact—unwelcome—but there—and real—and he could not look away—

Shock.

A man with sad blue eyes and a kind, wise voice, telling a boy with messy black hair about the sacrifice of a mother…

a flash of understanding blue eyes, twinkling, waiting, as a name glittered on a blood-stained sword…

a confusion of triumph and pain, and despair at the first knowledge that this man with the knowing blue eyes did not have all the answers, or hold all the power—

a song and a fire and gentle hands, sense of sinking pain, but held afloat by the gaze of those deeply blue eyes…

terrible freezing anger and ripping pain, figure of triumph with a hard, clear, blue-eyed gaze sweeping in, taking control, fixing mistakes and making almost everything all right…

a dark figure intruding, dark shadow sweeping in with death in his gaze, and blue eyes open but empty, green light and _anger _and falling—falling—_No—_

_NO_

Contact broken.

He was shaking with terror and with fear and with revulsion towards the death that reigned inside him, but his voice was strong. Words fled into the night, taking anger with them, leaving an uncertainty in its place. A sickness filled him—he must go—he must go _now_—

And leave behind the boy, outrun the pain, escape into the cruel comfort of his world of lies…

And so he ran—but it was not fast enough, and he knew it, because he knew he could not leave behind that anger, that blame, the pain in those green eyes, or the memory of the emptiness of those blue eyes, and he closed his own dark ones, so far from blue or green, and turned sharply to the side, slipping into nothingness, welcoming the rushing pain about his ears, for a moment to hang between the truth and future.

He was empty. He mind must be blank…

his mind was blank…

He was dead inside…

he must show triumph….

He must hold on to the lies that could save him…

Something more was needed.

No—one part of that familiar façade was already there, waiting for him—already in place… there was no warmth in him to vanish. There never was.

He was cold—so very, very cold…


End file.
